


Fill My Head With Music

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Missing Persons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to find them, he thinks. <i>He has to find them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill My Head With Music

Dean jumps out of the Impala, slamming the door and runs up the white front steps. He flips open his switchblade and cuts through the police tape covering the front door, panting harshly, heart hammering against his ribcage and blood pounding in his ears. His mind scrabbles through his thoughts, churning them out at top speed, frantic and pacing and panicked. He has to find them, he thinks.  _He has to find them._  Dean chants the words in his head, echoing and reverberating, as he kicks open the door in front of him.   
  
The silence in the empty house is smothering and threatening. Dean pulls out his gun out of the back of his waistband, cocks it and holds it out in front of him, his weapon, his shield, an extension of his arm. He walks whisper soft on the shag rug in the hallway. A thick sense of dread wraps around his gut and his lungs and squeezes until he can’t breathe, until he wants to heave, nausea rolling through him.   
  
They’re not here. In the deathly stillness of this abandoned house, Dean knows they’re not here. But he has to find them and he has no idea where they are, where they could be. He has looked everywhere else.   
  
He runs his left hands through his hair, pulling, tugging viciously on the short strands, yanking until it hurts, until he wants to fucking cry. Dean promised them, had hunkered down before them, held their hands and  _promised_  them that he would look after them, that the ghost that had killed their parents would not kill them too, would not grab them and make them disappear. He had held Mark in his arms, little five year old body trembling and shaking in fear. He had tugged gently on Rachel’s long red hair to get her to smile. Dean had held their small bodies in his arms, warm and terrified and alive and had fucking promised them.   
  
And the ghost had grabbed them anyway, bent on twisted revenge that Dean didn’t quite understand. Had grabbed them right under Dean’s nose, from the back seat of the Impala as he had dug up its grave. He had salted and burned the bones anyway, knowing that he had too, that John would not expect anything less, even though he wasn’t around, no one else was around and Dean was by himself, one person in the Impala, no one to frown and bitch about his choice of music.   
  
It’s all his fucking fault and Dean’s arms ache with the phantom weight of the little bodies he had promised to protect, to save.    
  
Dean walks through the house, opening all the doors and closets, looking under beds and couches, crawling through the attic and the basement. He searches until his eyes feel gritty with exhaustion and dust, until his legs tremble and shake, until the morning light shines through the kitchen window and illuminates the room with the blue-ish light of early morning, surfaces gleaming and reflecting the light into Dean’s tired eyes. The house is still deathly silent, a tomb and Dean feels chilled to the bone, weighed down and drowning.   
  
He makes his way out of the house and sits on the top porch step, wood smooth with use and he imagines he can hear the quick pitter-patter of little feet and bright, high, innocent laughter. Something fragile and important shatters inside Dean’s chest and he hangs his head between his shoulders, right hand holding the gun falling heavily between his legs.   
  
He stays there until the evening chill makes him shiver, when he stands up joints creaking even at twenty-two and makes his way back to the car, numbed and old beyond his years.   
  
He doesn’t find Mark and Rachel, still missing, still gone and he just drives away, Zeppelin filling his head until he doesn’t have room to think. Dean prefers it that way.


End file.
